Sea of Glass
by stripeypirate
Summary: Sequel to Grace (synopsis of which is inside). Dean's going to hell, prayers unanswered. Destiel
1. Flash-Forward

_And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire._- Revelation, 15:2

**Author's Note: **Thank you everyone who read Grace and provided me with such incredible support! This one's for you (ok, and me too- I was loath to leave the universe I'd created).

If you HAVEN'T read Grace, I'd recommend it but I will of course provide a brief synopsis if you aren't ready for that sort of commitment just yet: John was kidnapped by a demon called Valefour while researching a case. Valefour has stolen an angel's Grace and is now searching for the vessel so that he can wield its power for his own dastardly purposes. Said vessel is a boy named Cas, who is confined in a mental hospital where a certain Winchester is assigned community service. They bond, angst ensues. Bottom line: Valefour shows up at the motel room once he discovers who Cas is. Cas gets his grace back during the fight but loses his humanity (and his feelings for Dean) as a result. He finishes off the demon but then leaves Dean alone with John, who is gravely injured. Dean (17) sells his soul in order to keep the family from falling apart, but doesn't tell anyone. This shit is pretty bare bones, so if you're confused feel free to message me. Or y'know, read it ;D

**This chapter was Beta'd by Maddy77.** She rocks.

* * *

**Ten Years left**- _Together_. That's all that mattered. John left the hospital the next day, doctors scratching their heads. Dean happily suffered through endless hours on the road, grueling training, and suspiciously damp sheets. He even rejoiced at the sound of Sam and John sniping at each other. Because they were a family. And they would stay a together as long as Dean would live. A decade wasn't that long, after all.

**Nine Years**- He celebrated the first year anniversary on a rooftop of another faceless motel with a fifth of stolen Jack and the stars spread out above him. One year since Valefour had taken John, beaten the hell out of Sam and nearly destroyed everything Dean held dear. One year since Cas had left him standing forlornly in the wreckage of a motel room, his father quietly bleeding out in the parking lot. One year since Cas had turned to him with alien eyes devoid of recognition, even after all they'd shared… But he wasn't going to think about that anymore. Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he still prayed, _or whatever the hell you call it, _to Cas every night. He held the bottle up towards the sky, before smirking to himself and letting a thin stream spill over the edge, tumbling down to splash on the pavement. He imagined the amber liquid seeping into the blacktop, making its way to hell drop by drop. _Here's to you, Crowley-darling. The answer to my fucking prayers. _Dean paid for it the next morning, hugging the toilet as John cursed him for his indiscretion and Sam frowned in disapproval from the doorway. He didn't mind entirely. I_'m still here. _

**Eight Years**- Just looking at Sam made his skin crawl. No amount of plastic surgery (_as if we had the cash for that in the first place) _could ever disguise the long, tortuous scar that bisected the right side of Sam's cheek. It was a physical reminder of Dean's failure, how he'd let a demon get its fucking paws on his little brother. John felt the same way, Dean could see it in his eyes; the hot flash of anger that swept through him whenever his youngest came into view. Sam said nothing, though in the first week back on the road, the bathroom mirror had mysteriously "fallen" on its own accord. These days he mostly glared back at all the strangers who were caught surreptitiously staring. _It'll be alright, Sammy, chicks dig scars. 'Specially a bad boy like that_, he'd insisted, throwing and arm around the younger boy's shoulders. He had to at least try to make it better, although the way Sam shrugged him off made Dean suspect that he wasn't convinced either.

**Seven Years**- The papers stuffed hurriedly under Sam's mattress, a ragged corner peeking out, had been too much temptation for Dean. What smut could be so horrendous that his little brother had to hide it from _him_, the one with a Guinness World Record's worth of Busty Asian Beauties? He'd yanked them out triumphantly in front of Sam, waving the about his head as his younger brother clawed desperately at his chest and arms, trying to knock him off balance. In a few years (or maybe months at the rate he was growing) "little" Sammy would surpass him in height, so Dean felt it best to use this advantage while he still could. He only stopped when Sam let out a choked sob. Seriously, what was he holding? What could be so dangerous if he found out? Turns out college applications fit the bill. Sam begged and pleaded with him not to tell John, unshed tears balanced precariously on his eyelashes. _Please Dean, this might be my only chance. If Dad finds out…_ Dean should never have promised. The silence was killing him.

**Six Years** – He almost told them then. When John was bellowing at the top of his lungs, rage peeling the paint off the walls. When Sam was standing in front of the open door, shoulders ramrod-straight, jaw clenched like he was being electrocuted. _What right did they have to talk about sacrifice? About family? _But neither man was going to budge. They never did. So Sam walked out that door, duffel in hand, on the path to Stanford. _The path that led away from me. From us. _Dean could've opened his mouth right then, with Sam's hand poised on the doorknob, John still breathing like he'd wrestled a bear. Could've told them both what he'd given up. But he wouldn't put that kind of shit on Sammy, if John didn't outright kill him in the first place, send him to hell a few years early. So he kept his mouth shut and let his best friend walk out of his life.

**Five Years**- Dean didn't remember much of the next year. He and John stumbled through it in an alcohol-induced haze. John missed Sam like he'd miss an arm that got cut off, but of course he was too stubborn to admit it. Dean spent most of his time playing The Good Son. He stopped praying, too. Clearly no one was home.

**Four**- For weeks he'd carry on; salt, burn, crash, repeat, until suddenly he'd wake up in the middle of the night with the realization that time was slipping through his fingers. He'd grab his boots and head out, no matter what the hour. He'd drive as fast as he could with the windows down, letting the wind run its chilly fingers through his hair, go find a chick or two to fuck, just to feel alive. He went to visit Sam once. Drove six hours to Paolo Alto, arriving as the sun peeked over the horizon, tinting the campus rose and gold. Waited outside the dorms in the Impala, trying to guess which room housed his brother. _Does he have a good roommate? Surely not one as awesome as yours truly. _ He pictured him, sipping smuggled beers and laughing with some smart, charismatic dude. Talking about girls and classes instead of things that go bump in the night. That thought had been too much. Dean left as quickly as he could, before he tainted Sammy's shot at a real life.

**Three**- The hunts kept on coming. A Chupacabra in Tucson, poltergeist in Philly, _two _skinwalkers wreaking havoc in Des Moines… There was a demon in Charlotte that looked him dead in the eye and licked its lips before Dean sent it screaming back to hell. Or maybe he was just imagining it. His dreams were getting darker every day, filled with sulfur and shadow.

**Two**- After five days had gone by without any word from John, Dean once again made the long trek to Paolo Alto. Damn it was nice to see Sammy again, shaggy-haired and taller than ever (if that was even possible), making strides towards an apple-pie life. His girlfriend looked like a sweetheart, even though she was way too hot for his geek brother. For a weekend it had been just like before, cruising in the Impala, trading barbs back and forth but eventually they finished the job, sans John, and Dean reluctantly delivered Sam back to his apartment. He'd lingered outside for a few minutes, sipping a beer and wondering if Sam and Jess would get married and have a couple kids after he was gone. _Better name one after me, Sammy._ _At least one of us can get out of this mess. _Dean realized he was glad for that. Until he smelled smoke and heard Sam's anguished cry pierce the night.

**One**- Bile rose bitter and harsh in the back of Dean's throat. Dad was dead and it was all his fault. _If only you'd told him_ that insistent, niggling voice in the back of his mind whispered. _He never would've sold his soul for some worthless piece of crap that was hellbound in a few years. He would've let you die, sent you down a little early. Now Sammy's gonna be all alone. _Sammy, who John had told him to… Dean shuddered, pushing away the nagging worries about the visions that were becoming more frequent and powerful with each passing day. _Never. That's one order I just can't obey, dying request or not. _

**Time's Up**- "Nah Sammy, I got it. Had to drive around for about an hour lookin' for the damn thing but hey, a djinn ain't got nothing on me." Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but sweat was pooling in his lower back. He flinched, letting out an involuntary gasp as he heard a long, throaty howl. Closer this time.

"… Are you alright?"

"What?! Uhh yeah, there's just this girl… She's still alive. In pretty bad shape though, I'm gonna swing by the ER, first." _Please let me make it that far. _"And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care." Lame as last words go, but he supposed they were fitting, all things considered.

* * *

Sam flipped his phone shut with a soft click, a puzzled frown creasing his face. He wasn't an idiot. He knew that Dean had been waking up shaking at swinging at invisible foes every night for the past few weeks. Something was wrong. Possibly of catastrophic proportions, but as usual, Dean was being a stubborn ass about it. Sam briefly considered hot-wiring a car and going after him, but then his eyes fell on the note tucked unobtrusively under the bedside lamp.


	2. Into Darkness

**Author's note: **Sorry for the long wait- exams are over as of today! I am a free woman. Now have some angst ;D

Beta'd by Maddy77

* * *

_Hey Sammy,_

_By the time you'll read this, I'll probably be gone. And I suppose I'll take the coward's way out and tell you now that these past ten years have been a lie. Remember Dad's "miraculous" recovery after Valefour kicked his ass? Well, it wasn't so much a miracle as it was a little demon mojo courtesy of a guy named Crowley. He's coming to collect tonight. Drag my sorry ass straight to hell. I just want you to know that it was worth it. Every minute. So please, give this shit up, alright Sammy? Go back to school, become some fat cat lawyer and live the rest of your life. I'm a lost cause, man. Always have been, but it doesn't have to be like this for the both of us. You got out once and you were happy. I'm sorry I screwed that up too. I know you hate me for not telling you about this mess. In fact I can hear you whining at me in my head, saying how "I shouldn't have had to bear this burden alone" and yada yada yada, but you know what? It was my choice. I did it so we could be a family a little while longer and I hope you won't begrudge me that. There's a bottle of whisky hidden in my sock drawer. Give it to Bobby Singer for me next time you see him. _

_-Dean_

_PS. Take care of Baby, or I swear I'll haunt your ass. _

Dean's blunt, blocky handwriting stood out starkly on the page. Little scratches and crossed-out sections showed where he'd struggled with the wording. Some of the damp patches smelled faintly alcoholic. Sam was more afraid of the ones that didn't. The paper fell out of Sam's shaking hands. He was out the door before it even touched the carpet.

Miles upon miles of dark countryside flashed by in the headlights of a grey '94 Cadillac that had been unfortunately parked two spaces down from the Winchester's motel room. _Did Dean pick this hunt on purpose?_ Sam wondered. A large search area, an ambiguous target. Easy for one hunter to slip away and die before anyone caught on. _Where should I even start?_ Sam wracked his brains, searching for some sort of clue his brother might have left with his final actions. _The girl! Dean would have taken her to a hospital first._ Sam was certain of that.

* * *

The baying was louder than ever now, closer. Dean caught a hurried glimpse of massive paws and slavering fangs in the rearview mirror before hurriedly looking away. In the passenger seat the girl sprawled bonelessly, her head lolling from side-to-side with the motion of the Impala. Dean wasn't even sure if she was still breathing but damned if he was going to stop to check. _I have to save one more, just this last girl, please,_ Dean begged incoherently to anyone who was listening, trying to ignore the futility of the act. When was the last time anyone had responded? If the angels, or God, or whatever was up there had ignored the pleas of a frightened teenager, why would they help someone so tainted as the man he was now? Only the hellhounds answered. He felt one latch onto the rear bumper, causing the car to veer across the road. Dean snatched up the shotgun he'd placed carefully in his lap and took a few wild shots through the back window. He hit at least one, maybe two judging by the angry snarls and the sudden release of pressure on his Baby. The lights of Morris County General glowed faintly in the distance. _Almost there…_

* * *

Sam tried to ignore the first flare of pain in his temple, accompanied by a small twinge of nausea. A few seconds later his vision flickered, as if someone had rapidly flipped a light switch._ Oh God, not now. _But he knew the symptoms all too well. Sam fought desperately against the growing pounding in his head as the road in front of him began to swerve in and out of focus. The world flashed in front of him again. This time he glimpsed a pale figure in the seat next to him. A girl with dark, dirty hair spread in a sweaty tangle across her face. Then she was gone. Sam pushed back with all his might, fighting against the pull of the vision, afraid of what he might see. His head was expanding, brain pulsating against his skull. Another blinding, excruciating jolt and he saw Dean twisted around in the Impala, brandishing a shotgun at some unknowable terror behind him. Sam could smell the sweat and fear pouring off him, masked by adrenaline and a certain urgency. Sam gasped as snapped back to reality, his head and stomach roiling in panic. The visions only ever showed him on thing, after all. The pain boomed and crackled thunderously in his ears, coated his tongue with ash. It smelled like sulfur. _No... Dean. Only a little time. I need to-_ but he was overtaken completely.

* * *

_Dean was running wild-eyed through a forest. A branch reached out and snagged him, causing blood to well up on his temple and trickle slowly down his cheek. Dean didn't seem to notice, continuing to pelt through the underbrush, occasionally risking a glance behind him. His breathing was becoming more and more tortured, chest heaving in and out raggedly. He didn't dare stop though. Even after his legs gave out, he crawled- fingers scraping futilely at the dirt. A slow, chilling howl rose behind him, followed by another and another, as the noise rose in a hair-raising crescendo. Dean was jerked violently back as something grabbed hold of his leg, but it stayed hidden on the edge of the vision. In one brutal motion, the thing clamped down. A flash of teeth, the sound of bone snapping, and Dean's scream. The rest of the pack dove in, fuzzy indiscriminate nightmare shapes circling and pouncing on his prone form. Invisible claws raked down Dean's chest. Soon he was nearly unrecognizable; a broken bloody chew toy. His fingers twitched upwards briefly as if he was reaching for the amulet around his neck, but then he was still. _

The pounding in his head melded with the sound of a horn until the two became one insufferable blast. Sam floundered inside his own head, finally free of the hellish vision but unable to return to full consciousness. _Have to get to Dean. Might still be time. Gotta fix this. _Sam winced against the noise, feeling something firm and circular press against his face. _Have to get off the steering wheel. _He staggered out of the car, wiping away the blood that had pooled on his upper lip. Something gleamed dully in the Chevy's headlights, off the road to the right about a hundred feet ahead. Sam fought the inevitable bile rising in his throat as he crept forward, silently thanking the owner of the car for keeping a flashlight in the glove compartment.

"Dean?" He called, but there was no answer. The night was completely still. Glancing down, Sam saw thick black skid marks slashed across the road. Trepidation growing, he quickened his pace, glass crunching under his feet. _Was I this close the whole time? Could I have been watching Dean in real time while he… _Sam was sprinting now, all sense of professionalism or personal safety gone.

"DEAN!" The Impala came into view of his beam. A figure was still hunched over in the passage seat, unmoving. The driver's seat had been wrenched open, and was hanging forlornly as if Dean would return at any minute. Sam thought he heard a low, rumbling growl emanating from the trees alongside the road, but nothing emerged in the yellowed glow of the flashlight. Sam cautiously slid around to the passenger side and jammed two fingers onto the girl's neck. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to go find Dean, but he knew he couldn't just leave her there to die either. She looked the same as she had in his vision; right down to the filthy hemp bracelet around her wrist, below the faint, bluish puncture marks from the IV the djinn had used to extract her blood. Her pulse was weak but she stirred slightly under his touch. _Not in immediate danger, not my problem anymore._ Sam took off into the woods, praying that he hadn't run out of time.

* * *

He found Dean sprawled out underneath an oak tree, the ground surrounding him churned into a slush of mud and blood by giant paws. Sam knelt down gently in the damp earth, cradling Dean's head in his lap. Absentmindedly he wiped the gore from his brother's face, imagining the tree sucking up Dean's essence through its roots. _He will live on. _Sam felt hot and cold simultaneously as the every ounce of air left his lungs in one great _whoosh._ Tears burned a trail down his face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud to the emptiness.

"Too little too late, I'm afraid," a sardonic drawl replied.


	3. Down Down Down

**A/N**: Wah sorry for the long wait between chapters. This one's a bit longer if that's any consolation. A million than-yous to Maddy77 and Mikey, who Beta'd for me!

Reviews are treasured like a well-behaved child. Perhaps more ;D

* * *

"_I'm sorry," he whispered aloud to the emptiness. _

"_Too little too late, I'm afraid," a voice drawled back. _

Sam's head snapped around just as a craggy-faced man in a suit stepped out from behind a tree. He was well-groomed, bordering on immaculate, with a clean shaven face and close cropped hair. In fact, he looked just like your average businessman. Except for the yellow glow in his eyes.

"You-" Sam choked out, letting go of Dean's head with one hand to scramble furiously in his jacket pockets. _There's gotta be something here. Anything. Make it up to Dean, even a little… _

The yellow-eyed demon sighed, pulling the Colt out of his waist band. "You know Sammy, this is the only way you can kill me." He gesticulated vaguely towards himself, "I'm Azazel by the way. Pleasure to finally meet face-to-face. I've heard a lot about you."

"How?" Sam spat. He realized that he was clutching Dean's hair in his fist as he rocked forward into a crouch. "What does it matter anyway, huh? You got what you wanted right? My brother's-" but the words stuck in his throat and Sam slumped back down. _He's not dead. At least, he won't be for long._ A plan was slowly forming in his mind, cold hard determination steeling over his molten grief.

"I want to trade places with him."

"Oh?" Azazel cocked an eyebrow.

"You're a demon right? Let's make a deal."

Yellow-Eyes smirked, "How predictable, Sammy. You Winchesters are all the same- sacrificing yourselves of the sake of one another over and over. Honestly, could you at least try to be more than a walking cliché?"

The muscle in Sam's jaw twitched, pulling the skin taught against his scar. "I'm not playing around here. I know who you are and what you did and in any other circumstance I'd kill you before you even opened your filthy mouth."

"If you had the means to kill me that is," Azazel reminded him, wagging the colt under his nose. "I'm sorry Sammmy boy, but Hell just ain't all that interested in your soul."

Looking back, Sam wished he'd stopped there, left the demon in the woods and carried Dean's body back to the Impala. He wished he'd driven off, dropped the girl at a hospital, buried his brother and left the whole mess behind him. It's what Dean had wanted. But instead, filled with pain that was slowly twisting into a ball of hard anger, he asked, "And why not?"

"Finally, someone starts asking the real questions." He snapped his fingers, his pointer and thumb forming a make believe gun. "Now settle down Sam, it's story time. And believe me, you'll want to hear every minute of this one."

Sam glared at the demon but made a conscious effort to slow his breathing, focusing on twisting Dean's amulet around his fingers. "I'm listening."

"That's better. Now think back, hmm… ten years. You met a friend of mine. Well, I say 'friend'. More of a liege-lord. Anyway, he held you in a basement for a while. Ring any bells?"

"Valefor," Sam breathed. _Dad had been gone too long and Dean was so busy with his community service at the hospital. Sam had figured it out all by himself, went to go check out the statues by city hall when something hit him from behind. Valefor, Duke of Hell and patron of thieves. He'd stolen John and then he'd taken Sam as well. If Dean and Cas hadn't shown up… _

"And we have a winner!" Azazel punched a fist in the air mockingly. "Now, why do you think he came after you?"

Sam shrugged. "We were getting too close. Had to stop us before we got in the way."

Azazel merely chuckled. "Please you were what, thirteen? 120 pounds? I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

Sam stared at him blankly. "He was after Cas. Valefor stole his grace, but he needed an angel to actually work the mojo right? And we figured that out and tried to stop him."

The demon shook his head, yellow eyes glowing in the darkening woods. "But why kidnap _you, _Sam? John didn't know about the angel bit, but he could've taken him down regardless. You weren't a threat."

"I don't know!" Sam's voice rose sharply.

"When did you start having visions? I'm betting it wasn't six months ago like all the rest of the psychic kiddos." His grin was turning into a leer.

Sam froze. _Impossible. He never told anyone. _

"I had the first one after Dean stitched me up," Sam murmured cautiously, studying Azazel's face for a reaction. He could have sworn the demon's mouth twitched upwards for a brief second. "I saw Cas getting his grace back, being swallowed by this white light. And our dad lying in the parking lot. I convinced myself later that I was too doped up from the painkillers, that I remembered things out of order, but…"

"Yes?"

Sam felt himself speak, compelled by what force he couldn't say. _Here I am in the woods, holding my brother in my arms and spilling my guts to a demon, _he thought detachedly. It was almost funny. "I think I saw Dean make the deal. The doctors pulled him away to talk and he left me sitting in the waiting room. My head was pounding, but I figured that was from the concussion. I saw these little flashes, heard someone say that dad was hurt really bad. That he might not make it, and they were going to split us up. Then I saw Dean in a church. I thought I must've had a nightmare because when I woke up dad was fine." _God, it all makes sense now_, Sam thought, digging his palms into his eyes. _Dean's exhausted smile, the fidgeting, later the screaming at night and the paranoia. When I left for Stanford… That must have almost killed him._

"Good, good. Thanks for sharing with the class." Azazel was closer now; Sam could feel his breath prickling the back of his neck. "In fact, Sammy, I think I might be able to pull a few strings for you. Let you see Dean one last time."

"Oh yeah? Why the sudden generosity?" Sam snarled.

Azazel ran his tongue lightly over his lower lip and grinned. "We need you, buddy. All the other little psychic freaks had their part to play, but you… You're the big Kahuna. Valefor picked you out special." Sam opened his mouth, but the demon held up a finger. "Don't get ahead of me, now. I'll explain. You see, all those years ago, I paid you a little visit on Valefor's orders. Stood over your crib, bled in your mouth. The whole fire bit, that was my idea," he chuckled fondly. "Anyways, that demon blood has been inside you all this time, Sammy. And when Valefor kidnapped you? I'll bet he gave you a second dose. Make ya bigger and stronger than all the rest."

Sam clutched Dean's jacket in his fists, twisting and untwisting the fabric. Glad he was dead. Glad he couldn't hear the poison spilling from the demon's lips. He wanted to run, to hide, to cover his ears and curl up and make it all go away. Because Yellow Eyes was right. Sam could feel it within him; a dark writhing shadow lurking on the periphery. It had always been there and he'd pushed it down, buried himself in school and friends, reaching for a normalcy that never existed.

"Fuck you!" He burst out, rage writhing in his gut. "I never wanted to be part of your stupid plan. Yeah, maybe I do have demon blood in me but I'm not going darkside. It's not what Dean would have wanted."

"Who said anything about going darkside?" Azazle spread his palms, raising his eyebrows in a picture of injured innocence. "I just need to do this one little itty bitty task for me. In return, you can have your brother back. For a few hours."

Sam stared at him stone-faced. "And what if I refuse?"

Azazel shrugged. "Then I let you go your merry way. You live out whatever ya got left of that pathetic life of yours and Dean rots in Hell; never hearing the words that went unsaid between the two of you. I mean, clearly you had something to apologize for, right?"

Sam looked down at Dean, his face twisted in pain, his eyes dull. _I'm sorry you had to hide this from us. I'm sorry dad and I didn't listen. I'm sorry you were always in the middle. I'm sorry I left for Stanford. I'm sorry we didn't get to go to Vegas. I'm sorry I was born. _

"What do you want me to do?"

* * *

The voice was faint and far away. Sam felt like he was already a spirit, floating above the little patch of ground where his brother lay dead. Where he was, in essence, making a deal with the devil. He was burnt out, done; a dry husk battered by the events of the past few hours. _It feels like days. _If he had the energy, Sam would have laughed: the Winchester trifecta of self-destruction. The family business was sacrifice, it would seem. _Take the colt and unlock the door. That's all I need to do. Then I can see Dean. Then I can sleep. _Sam found himself walking along a set of railroad tracks, a half-empty bottle of whisky dangling loosely in his grasp. _I'm drunk, _Sam marveled, trying to piece together the fuzzy bits of his journey. He'd buried Dean, yes, after the demon left. For a brief moment he'd considered turning the Colt against himself, screw Azazel and the whole damn plan. Lie down to rest beside his brother in bed of pine needles. But he figured they'd just find another poor sap with tainted blood and it get on regardless. _I'm doing this for you, _he told Dean as he patted down the dank earth. _You can kick my ass in hell. _

The gate loomed in front of him; a behemoth carved in grey stone, bearing down a thundercloud. A door constructed of heavy iron, with a hole in the center for the colt. Sam did as he'd been told, inserting the gun, jimmying it ever so lightly until her heard a _click_. The empty graveyard lay hushed for a moment, until the doors were ripped open with a savage burst of energy. Black smoke filled the air, and Sam could hear insane laughter and primal snarls as the jets hissed past his head. _Demons. _His blood went cold. _This must be a passage into hell. I can find Dean, save him… _Sam ducked low, bent against the onslaught of souls that were forcing their way out. He stood, fingers grasping the solid metal door, as he tried to peer down into the abyss. The smell of sulfur made his eyes water.

"Dean?" He cried out over the hiss and sizzle of flames, the eager yelps of demons going topside for the first time in thousands of years. No answer. Sam felt his heart pounding in his ears. With fear yes, but also… excitement? _I'm coming for you. Together we're going to make this right. _And with that, Sam stepped off the mortal coil and into the bowels of Hell.

_Voices shrieking screams a flash of white light heat so hot burning falling dark_.

* * *

Azazel allowed himself a smug smile of satisfaction as he pulled the Colt loose; gingerly pushing the door shut as he did so, carefully avoiding the iron. Everything had gone according to plan. Better in fact, because dear old sorry-sack Sam Winchester had decided to play the hero and jumped right into the belly of the whale. He was well on his way to becoming Hells' golden boy. And then there was his brother Dean, who should get the apocalypse under way any minute now. Azazel patted the bullets in his chest pocket. He was unstoppable now. Valefor had never taken the proper precautions and that had been his downfall. Azazel had learned from those mistakes. And now look where he was- no longer a peon working for some puffed up Duke of Hell. He was well on his way to becoming king. Check and mate.

* * *

Moonlight frosted over the silent tombstones, the air limp and saturated with smoke. A lone figure made of silver and dust broke the stillness. His head hung low, stubbly chin nearly touching his chest. On his knees in front of the gates to Hell, he was the picture of defeat. Save for his hands, clenched at his sides and mangled from the long climb topside. His sons were lost now, sure. But that didn't mean he could quit. Yellow-Eyes was still alive and kicking after all. Even in death, he couldn't let that go. John Winchester raised his face to the night sky, his insubstantial body shifting around him like he was made of sand. With a wordless oath, born of blood and battle, he vanished.


	4. Resurrection

**A/N: **Congrats to Maddy77 on graduating! I wish you the best in your future endeavors.

* * *

Heather Norton sighed and shuffled a stack of papers around her workstation. Mr. Jenkins, their resident alcoholic, had already been hauled in by the police after attempting to urinate on the wooden cowboy statue that stood outside Mort's Gas and Tobacco. He sat on a gurney, blissfully unaware of his surroundings and occasionally breaking into song. A disgruntled police officer watched him carefully, though it was clear he wasn't going anywhere until he sobered up. Billy Costello was leaving, after having the result of his newest skateboarding accident stitched and bandaged.

"Is someone coming to get you?"

"I got a ride," Billy grinned, waving his scuffed board at Heather.

"Be careful!" She cried after him, before checking the waiting room. Still devoid of life. Heather sighed; it looked like it was going to be another quiet, and frankly boring, night in the Morris County ER.

A flurry of activity by the ambulance bay caught her eye. Heather stood, straightening her long, white coat and willed herself to take a deep breath. _It's probably nothing. _Still, she felt the excitement of a possible trauma case crackle through her. _It's pretty foggy out tonight. Car accident? That would certainly liven things up around here. _Heather was in the middle of silently scolding herself, halfway down the corridor, when the doors burst open.

A tall, pale man staggered in, collapsing under the weight of two other people. The man was slung over his shoulder in a clumsy fireman's carry, arms limp and flopping against the back of the man's knees with each step he took. The woman was standing on her own-barely. He had her cradled in a half carry with his free hand cupping her waist. "Please, take care of them," he gasped.

"We need some help over here!" Heather shouted, dashing over to the stranger and easing the woman, _girl- she doesn't look out of high school_, out of his arms. She was ghostly white and filthy. She was breathing, faintly but steadily.

"Can you hear me?" Heather intoned in a loud voice, vigorously digging her knuckles into the girl's breastbone. Heather gave a small sigh of relief as the girl flinched away from the painful stimulus, opening her eyes in the process. _Alright, she's responsive for now, got a pulse and is breathing OK on her own, _she thought as she lowered the frail body onto a nearby gurney, _time to move on to the next one._ Heather felt her blood pumping, adrenaline coursing through her veins. This is what she lived for- multiple traumas, triage, no time to pause or dawdle about whether or not she made the right call. The man was completely still; at first she thought he might be dead but closer inspection revealed an erratic rise and fall of his chest. He was covered in blood. Heather whipped a pair of trauma shears out of her pocket and swiftly cut away his clothes. In another place and another time Heather might have admired his finely chiseled features and powerful musculature, but now all her attention was focused on the source of the bleeding. Which she couldn't find. His skin was flawless. Heather paused for a moment, utterly puzzled. She grabbed his shoulder, preparing to logroll him over to check his back and froze. _A handprint? _The flesh was tender and pink, like it had just been burned.

"And how exactly did this hap-" she whipped around, preparing to interrogate the odd, pale man who had brought them in, but he was gone.

Muffled cursing and a small crash alerted her to the fact that Paul Dennings, the night nurse, had finally sauntered out of the staff room.

"Shit doc, what's going on here? I heard you call but I thought-"

"Save it," Heather flapped a hand at him distractedly. "I need labs on these two right away. Umm probably some oxygen, and get a saline drip started."

Paul nodded and scurried off, leaving Heather shaking her head and wondering if she were still awake.

* * *

Consciousness returned painfully, slowly. A whisper of sheet here, a soft voice there, but mostly he felt pain. A dull constant ache throughout his body, like he'd run a hundred miles and laid down to sleep. The back of his hand itched. Dean opened his eyes, wincing at the whiteness surrounding him. _Hospital? _He tried to sit up, feeling the world start to tilt and swirl around him. _How long was I out? _Dean stared down at his lap, trying to remember how he'd gotten here. _Blood, snarls, tearing, ripping, a voice screaming into the void. _His voice. Dean shuddered, rubbing his eyes. _Hellhounds. And then? _He searched tentatively inside his own memories, like he was searching for a particularly nasty spirit trapped somewhere in a dark basement. Those memories, like the ghost were lurking somewhere out of site. He knew they would hurt him once uncovered, but he had to look nonetheless. His mind skipped and stuttered, dodging away from him when he tried to focus. Eventually Dean gave up, though he couldn't ignore the growing feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was going to come back and bite him in the ass. _Might as well start with how the hell I wound up in a hospital johnny instead of bled out by the roadside. _Dean stood shakily, his legs stiff and uncompromising as old leather. He gripped his IV pole tightly which, he realized belatedly, explained why his hand prickled uncomfortably. Dean felt something pull beneath his legs and froze, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. _Catheter. Shit, I must've been out of it for a while. _Defeated, Dean sat back down on the bed, running his finger over the call button as he tried to muster up the courage to push it. _C'mon man, the longer you wait, the longer you'll have that tube shoved up your-_

"Well look who's back in the land of the living!" A tall brunette stood in the doorway, her arms folded around a clipboard. Dean had to admit the whole white coat thing was pretty hot.

"Hiya doc," he croaked out, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. He squinted. "How long have I-"

"Since last Thursday, so almost a week. I'm Doctor Norton. Do you remember anything about what happened?"

Dean shrugged. _Nothing you would believe. _

The woman sighed, "Well it's not uncommon in patients with head trauma to have a period of amnesia surrounding the time of the injury. I was just hoping you could enlighten me. I was on duty the night you guys were brought in and… it was pretty weird."

"Weird how?"

Heather squinted at him, as if trying to decide whether he was sincere or not. "For starters a man shows up out of nowhere in the ER with you and another girl slung over his shoulder. I looked like she'd been injected with some sort of toxin and then had a large volume of her blood removed. You were unconscious and covered in blood but had no physical wounds other than your_…_ tattoo."

Dean bowed his head, trying to work through the influx of information. _The djinn victim._ He realized with a pang that he'd forgotten all about her.

"The girl… She's okay?"

Heather nodded, "Spent a few days in the ICU but she was released yesterday. The cops questioned her, but she wouldn't talk. Just said someone must've grabbed her from behind and shot her up before she realized what was going on."

Dean felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. _That's one part solved. Now about the rest…_

"The guy who brought me in… did he have brown hair, kinda shaggy, about yea big?" Dean stretched his arm high above his head.

The doctor frowned, a small furrow of confusion forming on her brow. "He was tall, sure. About your height though. Short, dark brown hair…" She paused, then added almost a murmured half-thought, "His eyes were really blue. Sound familiar?"

Dean had smiled and ruefully rubbed the back of his head, explaining that he must've hit his head _really hard_ because none of that made any sort of sense, and that now he was conscious, could he please get the catheter removed? And Doctor Norton had gotten some nervous nursing student to do the deed, and after they finally left Dean could finally drop the mask of nonchalance. Because Heather's description _did_ sound familiar. Someone he'd given up hope of ever seeing again.

Dean's hand went reflexively to his shoulder, where he was surprised to discover the skin was raised and calloused. _The doc did mention something about a tattoo. _Taking advantage of his new found mobility, Dean eased himself to the bathroom, peering at his reflection in the small, smeary mirror. Slowly, he slipped the hospital gown off his shoulder. Staring back at him, angry and red, was a handprint. Dean cautiously placed his palm over the mark. _Cas, are you there?_


	5. The Call

Dean cursed, fumbling through his wallet as the bus driver stared at him impatiently. The hospital had outfitted him with some new threads since his old ones were apparently soaked through with blood and gore. The jeans were so short the tops of his socks peeked out from under the cuffs, but the plain black t-shirt fit well enough. Unfortunately, the little cash he did have seemed to have suffered the same fate as his beloved blue jeans- the bills were practically unreadable, not to mention utterly gross. Dean gave up after several minutes of exasperatedly rejecting each and every dollar, waving a frustrated hand at the driver, who rolled his eyes and drove off in a cloud of exhaust.

_Am I still dead? Did I end up in friggin purgatory instead of hell? _Thankfully the town was backwards enough to still have a pay phone. Dean stumbled over, still not quite trusting his legs. It was at least ten degrees hotter inside the booth than outside, and Dean could feel a light film of perspiration forming on his upper lip as he dialed Bobby Singer's number. _Thank God blood spatter doesn't affect quarters._

The phone rang three times before an ornery "What?" sounded in the background.

"Heya Bobby, it's Dean. Listen, I'm a little stuck for transportation right now. Uhh do you think you could come down to… Morris County, Nebraska? I'll explain when I get there. Shit's complicated."

"No fucking way," Bobby breathed.

"The hell do you mean?" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "Look, I know it's inconvenient but I'm kinda screwed here."

"What I mean…" Bobby spoke slowly and carefully. Dean could picture him lowering into a saggy chair, a shot of whisky close at hand. "Is that last I heard, you'd up and vanished. With hellhounds on your tail."

"Sam called you?" Dean wiped a bead of sweat that was threatening to fall into his eye. _Glass-encased building in direct sunlight. Great idea. _

"Yeah. And that's the last I heard of him, too. You've got some 'splainin to do, boy."

Dean's hand curled around the receiver. He resisted the urge to punch the walls of the phone booth. "Bobby, I swear this is not some demonic trap. You can test me all you want later. All I know is that I was a devil dog chew toy, and then I woke up in a hospital. Please, man. I need your help."

A familiar rumble sounded in the background.

"The hell? Dean, is that you?" Bobby's voice was more distant, as if he'd put down the phone to go look out the window.

"Bobby? Listen to me. I am standing in a friggin furnace in the middle of Nowhere USA. Whatever's out there is isn't-"

"Shit!" A loud crash, followed by another garbled yell from Bobby. Then silence. Dean slumped against the wall, feeling the heat of the sun magnified by the glass. He slid down to the floor, cupping his head in his hands. _This can't be happening. _

"Bobby?" He whispered, afraid of what might answer.

The receiver crackled to life.

"Dean?" The voice was full of exhaustion and pain. The call fritzed in and out. "Are you… there?" Too gravelly to be Bobby.

"Cas?"

A rush of static that must have been a sigh. "Yes."

"What did you do?" Dean no longer felt the stifling heat. He was cold and hard, unforgiving.

"Come quickly." The voice was getting weaker, farther away. "Help…me."

The line went dead.

* * *

Dean stared blankly at the phone in his hand until a tone sounded and a robotic female voice reminded him to either make a call or hang up. He chose the latter, heaving himself off the floor and stumbling outside. His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton. Sam was gone and he was back. That could only mean one thing. Dean was tempted to find a crossroads right then and there, dig a hole, cram his soul in a box and wait for some demon to snatch it up, switch places with his brother and make the world right again. _He had no right to do this to me._ The memory of Cas' voice stopped him. He'd sounded so… helpless. Like when they'd first met. A lonely, confused boy with little knowledge of his true place in the universe. _Destined for greatness,_ Dean thought sarcastically. The bitterness of Cas' transformation had stayed with him, a harsh aftertaste in the back of his throat. _He never answered, not once, after he angel-ed up. Left me to die… Now he's begging me for help. That's rich. _Still, the phone call sent doubts wriggling down Dean's spine. Cas might have answers, could help him save Sam. Reluctantly, Dean stuck out his thumb and waited.

* * *

It was dark by the time Dean arrived in South Dakota, stinking of exhaust and stale cigarette smoke. He waved half-heartedly at the trucker who had driven in silence the last four hours, pausing only for a brief piss by the roadside. Dean could see Bobby illuminated by the light spilling out of the kitchen window, his forehead creased with worry. He prepared himself for a battery of tests; silver, holy water, iron, salt. Instead, Bobby placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I think you'd best come inside quick."

The scent of char and decay overpowered the typical dust-and-oil odor of Bobby's home. A form lay huddled on the living room couch under Bobby's least scratchy blanket. It made no move as Dean approached, nor did it stir as he peeled back the cover.

The thing sprawled before him wasn't Castiel. Or even Cas. It couldn't be. The angel had been powerful, white-hot strength surging from every pore. Nigh invincible. The boy was fragile, sure, the way people tend to be after they spend most of their lives in an institution. He'd still had a spark though. The steely determination that would flare in his eyes when he talked about what he heard and felt. How it was _real. _This hideous, broken, _creature_ on the other hand… Its flesh was waxy pale with a slight grayish-green tinge and smelled like it was rotting from the inside. The lips were shriveled, darkening at the edges. Dean tried not to think how rough and chapped they'd felt against his own all those years ago. _He's not that person anymore. Maybe he never was. _He reached out a cautious hand and brushed the angel's forehead. Hot and sticky, like dough. For a minute Dean was afraid the skin would slough away at his touch.

"Dammit Cas," he whispered. "What the hell happened to you?"

* * *

"So he hasn't moved at all?" Dean sat in a kitchen chair, feet resting on the table.

"Nope." Bobby sighed and shot him a disproving glare as he handed Dean a beer. "Drove up while I was talkin' to you on the phone."

"Wait, he _drove_. In the Impala?" Dean nearly choked.

"Mhmmmm. Musta only been a couple feet though. Usually I can hear that engine coming for miles. It was like he appeared in the goddamn driveway. Started mumbling something about needing to talk to you. Clocked me over the head when I wouldn't let him in right away. Funny, I think he apologized as I was going down. Anyhow, I came to about a minute later and he was passed out on the floor next to the phone. Ran all the usual tests on him of course, but they came back negative. Figured you'd show up eventually so I bunked him on the couch and waited. Didn't take long. Now talk. You can start with what the hell he is cuz I ain't never heard of anything like this. "

Dean wiped the foam clinging stubbornly to his lip and began at the beginning. He gave Bobby a basic rundown of the past ten years. The old hunter mostly sat and listened, nodding or shaking his head incredulously. His eyes darkened when Dean mentioned the deal, but the only other outward sign of his displeasure was the dents his fingers made in the beer can.

"Shit," he breathed when the tale was finally over. "Sounds like somebody saved your ass from the Pit. I'm thinking your angel pal over here definitely has something to do with that." Bobby chuckled wryly, removing his cap and scratching his head. "Angels. You boys always do manage to get right in the middle of it."

Dean picked at the tab moodily, swinging it back and forth until it popped off with a satisfying little _crunch._ "What about Sam, Bobby? You don't think his disappearance has Demon Deal written all over it?" He poked his finger into the mouth of the can, testing the new, sharp edge he'd created.

Bobby shrugged. "We can't say for certain until _he _wakes up_." _He jerked his thumb back towards the living room. "I hate to say it, but I think for now we'll just have to wait and see."

Dean rubbed a grimy hand over his eyes, the grit and dust from the road finally catching up with him. "How are we supposed to help him?"

"No problem. Just let me check my angel first-aid manual. Oh wait." Dean was relieved to hear the usual sarcasm creep back into Bobby's voice. It helped him pretend, just for a second, that things were getting back to normal. He allowed himself to be shooed upstairs for a shower and a couple hours in the sack.

Dean woke the next morning with a vague, sick feeling in his chest. Twisted shadows danced in the corner of his mind, lurking somewhere in the subconscious. Dean couldn't remember his dreams.


	6. Ashes to Ashes

**A/N: **Shorter chapter this time, but I like where it leaves off. Who tied up Sam?! Oh yeah, I did ;D

* * *

For a month, he wandered. Through dense sulfurous clouds, so thick he might have been blind. The ground was alive, snapping and crackling under his feet. It shifted treacherously as if it wasn't totally solid. Like the thin layer of grit and ash was merely a skin, with blood boiling underneath.

He called Dean's name, and was answered with unintelligible whispers and ghostly shrieks.

He lost track of time somewhere in the murky twilight zone of the inferno. His mouth shrunk to a puckered button. The fever heat rose, causing the featureless landscape to flicker in a liquid dance. A smoky figure swirled before him, reaching out an effervescent hand to trace his scar.

"He issss here," it crooned in a voice that sizzled and snapped.

Sam grunted, trying to force his mutilated lips to form words. But the smoke-shape wrapped a tendril around his tongue. It tasted of blood.

"Our prince hassss arrived," the thing screeched in a parody of joy before vanishing in a puff of foul air.

They found him soon after that. A circle of demons, whips in hand. He glanced from face to face. Their true demonic forms were twisted and blackened, with no eyes but gaping wide grins that stretched across their cheeks, curling upwards at the end in a carnal leer. Their limbs were blunt and misshapen; nubby hands, missing fingers, even one with its legs welded together like an obscene mermaid. None of them felt like Dean. In a manner of minutes, his wrists and feet were bound with harsh leather. The demons cackled about promotions and rewards as they marched, a hand occasionally darting out to touch his hair or stroke his chest.

* * *

More than once Dean considered placing a pillow over the thing's nose and mouth, holding down until the tortured mewling stopped. Until its limbs ceased their restless, jerky movements and lay still.

He went so far as to finger the rough, worn seams of Bobby's throw. Then he'd remember he needed answers. _If he ever wakes up. _And the desperate, pleading voice on the other end of the line. _He trusts me. _

Besides, he didn't know if it was even possible to murder an angel with cotton and batting.

So instead, he'd pick up another washcloth and wipe down its sweaty brow or page through Bobby's research. Looking for something, _anything_ that might lead him to Sam.

Night and day bled together. It continued to moan and thrash; breathing in ragged pants, occasionally calling out in a foreign tongue. Dean drank. Tried to forget the boy that had once lived in that body. _He's long dead by now. _

Feathers appeared. On the floor, in the folds of the blanket. Dean couldn't tell where they were coming from, but they were limp and lifeless, turning to dust when he touched them. He wondered if the body on the couch would eventually do the same.

* * *

The upper-level demons were more beautiful. And terrifying. With delicate, porcelain features and sharp, pointy teeth. They gazed at him with round, black eyes and sardonic smirks. Sam felt like a cow at auction. He was still bound; a leather halter around his neck, held proudly by one of the underlings, his wrists and ankles chained together. He glared back at them with all his might, though his angry shouting had been stopped by a filthy gag.

"I don't suppose you'll make this easy, will you?" sighed one, twirling her golden locks around her finger, as if Sam was merely an annoyance. She motioned for the gag to be removed.

"What the hell do need me for? Where's Dean?" He spat.

The demon froze, looking down her nose at him. "We were going to ask you the same thing. It's Dean we need, not you. And someone, or some_thing _sprung him out of here." Her eyes narrowed, "and you expect us to believe that you had nothing to do with that?"

A small, wet cough from behind interrupted her. "Pardon me, _madame_," and oily voice drawled, "If you feel the boy is lying, perhaps I could be of service? With my particular… set of skills-"

"Shut up, Alistair," she snapped, rubbing her temples. "You know he has to stay whole. I am not giving the boss an excuse to take it out of my ass once he's free."

A tall, gaunt man emerged from the shadows. His face had a skeletal quality, with deep eye sockets and an empty grin.

He sidled up to the woman, leaning in to get a closer look at Sam. He smelled like a corpse.

"I'm afraid it may already be too late for that, Lilith." His nasal, reedy speech made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickle instinctively. "I mean, you had the Righteous Man safe and locked away in Hell. This one…" Alistair took another step closer, bent down and sniffed deeply, tickling Sam's cheek. He let out a contented sigh. "Mmmm yes, chock full of demon blood," he whispered in Sam's ear with the sickeningly sweet breath of a dead man. "Far too… tainted to break the first seal."

Rage welled in Sam. He was sick of being a pawn in games he didn't even begin to understand. _And now Dean's part of it all too? Had they been waiting for him to make a deal all along? _His stomach dropped. _Was Dad's injury back then more than just a coincidence?_

He thought about Dean, noble and obedient to the letter. How he sacrificed everything, just so the Winchester family unit could limp a long together for a few more years.

Then he thought about himself. _Freak. Runaway._ The look in Dean's eyes when- _Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy. _

"I can see those little wheels in your head turning," Alistair wheedled. "Hate me all you want but, let's face it. You always were less than your brother."

Something within Sam snapped. He could feel it inside his bones; unbinding, expanding. He whipped his head around as fast as he could and sank his teeth into Alistair's ear. He felt the cartilage crunch as the demon howled and tore away, leaving Sam with a large chunk of flesh dangling from his lips.

The gag was crammed mercilessly back into his mouth as Alistair's shrieks turned to wild laughter.

"That's it, sonny!" He crowed. "Can you feel that heat? Ohh yes, excellent," he wiped his eyes with a bloodied hand. "We are going to have so much fun together."

"We're not done with you," Lilith hissed, grasping the back of Sam's neck. Sam felt white-hot fire bloom in his veins before he sank into unconsciousness.


	7. Somewhere in the Between

**A/N: **My laptop suffered an unfortunate accident which killed the hard drive, meaning I lost EVERYTHING. So after much blood, sweat, and tears (lots of tears), I present: chapter seven reborn! Even more thanks than usual to Maddy77 and Mikey who not only Beta'd this but also supported me in my moment of peril. The title of this chapter is lifted from a Streetlight Manifesto album (If you haven't listened to them, I'd highly recommend it!) Anyhoo, that's all I have to say.

Please enjoy! (and review?)

* * *

The featureless landscape billowed and undulated. Fires crackled somewhere in the distance. The air was thick and heavy, with a sharp metallic tang. The place resonated with him, half-remembered.

"Sammy?" Dean called, but his plea was lost in the haze.

He felt a piercing pain in his side. Looking down he saw the long, feathered shaft of an arrow protruding just below his ribcage.

"Our prince has risen," a voice intoned. Dean whipped around, trying to discover the source.

"Our prince has risen." It came from every direction. It was there, inside his head.

Dean hissed as he felt another stab of agony rip through his back. He couldn't see the archer or the arrows. Out of the smog they flew, one after another. He raised a hand to protect his face. A barb pierced his palm, the force wrenching his shoulder and driving him to his knees, pinned.

Ropes sprung from the earth like snakes, winding their way around his limbs, pressing his body to the ground.

"Rejoice." The voice reverberated, shaking Dean down to his bones.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a figure materialize and move toward him with long, purposeful strides.

Dean struggled, but was stuck spread-eagle like a butterfly in a collection.

Relief washed over him when he saw that the figure was Sam. "And the cavalry arrives! Quick, untie me so we can get the hell out of here."

But his brother made no move to help him. Instead, he peered down at Dean with a detached curiosity.

"Wha-"

Sam smiled, though his eyes remained cold and flat. His teeth were razor sharp.

He leaned over Dean, his jaw elongating until he could open his mouth inhumanely wide.

Dean didn't even have time to scream before Sam tore his heart out.

* * *

A firm hand pulled Dean back to reality. He woke to Bobby's face, creased with concern.

"You alright there, boy?"

"M'fine," Dean grunted, digging his fists into his eyes in an attempt to shake off the last vestiges of the nightmare.

"Bullshit," Bobby growled. "If it weren't for this one over here," he jerked his thumb at the body on the couch, "I'd have _you_ on lockdown."

"Yeah whatever, just gimme a drink."

Bobby huffed and puffed but eventually left to search the cabinets for a drop of Hunter's Helper.

Dean sighed and rose, stumbling sluggishly into the living room. He performed the ministrations automatically, the motions repeated so often they'd become ingrained. A hand above the mouth, feeling for the faint tickle of breath before placing that hand on Cas' forehead in one fluid motion. _Still hot. _Adjust the blanket, trickle some water between his lips and over his burning skin. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Dean could feel his world gradually shrinking down to four peeling, floral-papered walls, a desk crammed haphazardly with papers, and the sound of labored wheezing. He hadn't left the house in days, delegating the supply runs to Bobby while he poured over cramped text and sat vigil. _I'm sorry, baby. _He thought guiltily of his car, parked and tarped in the scrapyard.

"Maybe you should get out for a bit. Clear your head." Bobby materialized behind Dean, echoing his thoughts. He held out a beer apologetically. "This is all we've got."

"Nah, I'll be okay," Dean waved a hand dismissively. "Gotta keep hitting the books until we find something, right?"

Bobby scowled belligerently, drawing himself up to his full height. "Son, if you don't get out that door right now I'm gonna push you myself. I'll stay here and watch Rip van Winkle over here. You go breathe some fresh air." His eyes softened, "Sam can wait another twenty minutes."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but the elder man grasped him firmly by the arm and spun him around towards the porch. "Fetch me some coffee while you're at it. The strong stuff. You come back with instant and I'll kill ya."

* * *

They were keeping him in some sort of cell, with sturdy cinderblock walls and concrete flooring. The room was devoid of furniture, save for a hook dangling from the ceiling. In the beginning they'd hung him from it, yanking the chains around his wrists until his shoulders strained in their sockets. Now they were content to leave him in shackles. He could hear others banging on the walls to his left and right, could hear the screaming. None of them sounded like Dean.

He'd lost track of the days, not only was the light perpetually murky and dim but he got the feeling that time itself moved differently. In fits and stutters. Sometimes he'd feel the space between each beat of his heart, each breath stretching on for an eternity. Between every languorous pause he'd wonder if maybe he was finished.

But then with a snap he'd feel air enter his lungs and blood surge through his veins. His limbs would move jerkily, like in an old stop-motion picture he and Dean had seen when they were kids. Images flickering rapidly before his eyes.

After a period, _days? weeks?_ Azazel came to visit. He gripped the bars on the door tightly, grinning.

"Let's get ya outta here Sammy. I had a hell of a time finding you. Literally. And an even harder time convincing Alistair not to redecorate the room with your intestines." He shrugged, "So you should really be thanking me."

Sam spat on the floor. "Where's Dean? You told me I could see my brother!" His voice was raw with rage.

Azazel shook his head. "Tsk, so ungrateful. Dean's home free. Back topside safe and sound. You should really be worried more about yourself."

_Dean is safe. _Sam felt something loosen within him, the tight coils of pain and worry constricting his heart relaxed. He slumped down into a squat. "What do you want with me then?" He croaked finally.

Azael's eyes glittered. "I want to help you follow your destiny. I've been waiting, ever since the day you were born. Sure, there are others like you. But Sam, you truly are my favorite." His features relaxed in a sick parody of a loving gaze. "Come with me. I have something to show you."

Sam heard the door open and felt the heavy weight of the chains drop to the ground with a _clang. _His thoughts whirled around, darting away from him. _I don't understand. This has to be some sort of game. They'll be waiting on the other side to tear me apart._ But the long, dank corridor was deserted. Every hunter's instinct Sam possessed screamed at him to run, fight, resist, but his overwhelming curiosity got the better of him. _I need to find out the plan first. So Dean and I can stop it when I find a way back. _

He let Azazel lead the way, the demon grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

Dean hummed tunelessly, tapping the wheel of the Impala as he sped through the weary strip of asphalt that was the main road of Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Bottles clinked in the backseat. While the town was a podunk little spot on the map, it had a generously stocked liquor store.

Dean was thinking that maybe, just maybe he could take a day off and spend it poisoning his liver in a field somewhere with the radio blasting when the engine coughed and died with drawn-out rattle.

"Sonovabitch," he swore, punching the roof of the car in frustration.

"Hey, you'd better not be abusing her." Dean whipped his head around so fast he pulled a muscle in his neck.

Sitting shotgun, his arm dangling casually out the open window, was John Winchester.

Dean gaped openmouthed, his fingers stuttering up and down his jacket, unsure of what to do. _Salt? Holy water? Silver? Shotgun? Dad. _

John smirked. "You look like a civilian who's just seen a ghost. Thought I taught you better than that."

"Ho-how are you here? You, you aren't real!" was all Dean could manage.

"I don't have much time, Dean." Already he was fritzing in and out like a broken TV, his words occasionally skipping or blending together. "I have…connection with the car but s'not strong. I need-

"Do you know how we can save Sam?" Dean burst out, his heart pounding wildly with silent hope.

"Listen to me!" John clenched his fist and one of the Impala's headlights exploded in a shower of glass.

"Yessir," Dean muttered automatically, wiping sweat off his brow.

"Like I already told you… Dangerous. Your brother- can't save him from… will turn him. Blood. But Azazel, we can kill him and maybe put an end to this."

"How do you mean?" Dean asked cautiously, "I ain't giving up on Sam!"

"Of course," John put a hand on his son's shoulder. Dean could feel a numbing electric tingle creep down his arm. "…Have to be careful. Can'ttrust-" He vanished and the engine rumbled back to life.

Dean let out the breath he realized he'd been holding, cradling his head in his hands. _Can't ever get a goddamn break. First the demons, then Sam and Cas, now this. I can't do it. _

A buzzing noise interrupted his reverie. Dean fumbled around in his pockets before finally retrieving his phone.

"Bobby!" He snapped, though he could hear the pent-up emotion thickening his voice. "I-I can't talk right now, but there's something-"

"I think he's waking up."

Dean threw the phone onto the passenger seat without hanging up and tore down the road at speeds that would make the Sheriff's eyes bleed.


	8. Creation

He was falling. Falling through space and time, the blackness complete and eternal around him. A harsh wind sang in his ears, whistling as he descended. It was a hollow song of breaking and ending. Of longing and loneliness. His grace burned, searing him from within. Flaring hotter and hotter until he could feel it seeping through his skin, escaping like air from a perforated balloon.

He fell for eons, as the cosmos shifted and stars aligned, piercing pinpricks of light through the dark. He could feel himself shrinking as his vast reserves of celestial energy began to dwindle. Something began to pulsate within him, an awakening of a body that was once so familiar. He counted the beats, a soothing mantra as his bones calcified and the wings rotted from his back.

Mumbling human voices interspersed with the keening of his brethren. _What have I done? _he wanted to scream at them, but the wind stole his words away.

Finally, he stopped falling, or rather, the plummeting sensation ceased. The darkness solidified around him, pressing down, squeezing in. _Light. _A small yellow circle gleamed in the distance. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, pushing against the edges until he could tumble through.

Rough cloth, aching muscles, breaths sharp and spastic like his body had forgotten how to function. His arm jerked to his chest, the pounding rhythm increasing.

"I think he's waking up." There was a click and a sigh, followed by a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, can ya hear me?" The touch was different. _Warm, fleshy. _Not merely sensory input that registered in his consciousness. There was meaning behind it. _Concern. _He could feel the emotion conveyed through the firm pressure. Fingers acting like conductors; copper wire for electricity.

_The gruff man. _Cas cracked his eyes open and winced against the sudden influx of stimuli. Everything was too loud, garish, and bright. He squeezed them shut again. _Dean, I saved him. _But the words tore at his throat, his parched lips unwilling to open.

"Relax, you're safe, okay? Dean's coming." Another sigh, this one longer and heavy with fatigue. "Maybe he knows where the hell we can even start. Hang in there pal."

_They're gone. They left me. Everyone. I did as I was told. Dean, why… _ Cas felt himself sink further, dimly pleased that that the weightless sensation didn't continue. _Permanence. _The word felt strangely sad, but Cas didn't have time to reflect before the blackness caught up to him.

* * *

Sam followed Azazel through dank and twisted corridors, sinking lower and lower through the sulfurous rock. Finally they arrived at the lip of a gaping maw that stretched further than Sam could see. A chill emanated from the chasm, cutting through the ripe heat of Hell.

"He's here." Azazel's tone was soft and reverent. "Lucifer. Locked away for millennia. Waiting for you."

Sam shuddered, his skin crawling with unease. Because as much as he'd like to deny it, _wish it away_, something was calling out to him. The pit seemed to stretch out even further, inviting him in. _This is your true home, Sammy_ it whispered. _You belong here. With me. You always have. _

"Now Sam, this is what led to the demon blood and that unfortunate incident with your mother." He jumped at the sudden sound of Azazel's voice. "You are the one true vessel of Lucifer, destined to rise and bring the apocalypse, blah blah blah."

Sam flinched. He couldn't honestly say he was surprised, but that made hearing it out loud all the worse. _This can't be who I really am. _Frustration and despair curled within him like a fist. _I just want to get out, get back to Dean, forget this ever happened. _

"However," Azazel continued, "for reasons undisclosed, we can't start said apocalypse without your brother. So right now you're in a bit of a pickle." He grinned. "The demons just don't know what to do with you, Sammy. Alistair, he wants to torture you of course," faint disgust flickered across his face, "Lilith wants to use you as bait for your brother, and one odd fellow named Crowley just wants to let ya off scott-free." Azazel spread his palms as if amazed by the audacity of the idea. "Me on the other hand… Well no offense Sammy, but I think you could use a little more _training_."

Sam glanced up sharply, "If you think that I'll ever-"

Azazel put up a hand to stop him. "Please, you insult my intelligence. I already know that you would never stoop to do the bidding of a lowlife scum such as myself. Unfortunately," he leaned in, his grin widening conspiratorially, "I don't think you've got much of a choice."

Sam stared into the pit, feeling its pull inside him. He took a deep breath, willing those desires back into the dark well they sprung from. _Maybe I don't have a choice right now, but I can fake it, at least til Dean finds a way to bust me out of here. He was strong enough to resist whatever plan they had set up for him. I can do it too. _

Sam turned back to face Azazel, carefully schooling his features into a look of defeat. He kicked irritably at a nearby stalagmite, hunching his shoulders and shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"After this is all over, my training and everything. You'll let me go, right? I'll be able to see Dean?"

"Of course. If you still want to, that is. I'm not gonna lie to you Sammy, your life will never be the same."

Sam felt his anger flare again, genuine emotion pushing through the mask. "Yeah well a 'normal life' hasn't exactly been in the cards for me, I guess. Not since my mom died," he snapped. For a moment he saw himself, standing over the smoking hulk of Azazel's body, a smile playing across his lips. Just a flash, a split-second of searing pain, and it was gone.

"Good," Azazel nodded. "Acceptance is the first step. Very healthy." He slapped Sam on the back, "One more thing, my well-adjusted friend. Then we can begin."

He held out his arm, delicately slicing the thin skin just below his palm with a fingernail. Blood welled to the surface.

Sam could smell it instantly; the chamber reeked with a pungent, spicy aroma. His mouth watered.

_No, I can't. _

Azazel waited expectantly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at Sam's hesitation.

_He's testing me._

A single scarlet drop rolled down his arm, splashing on the floor.

_So loud. _Sam flinched at the thunderous echo. He was sweating, his fingers twisting around each other in complicated knots.

The demon said nothing, merely gestured toward the cut with his free hand, as if to say _dig in. _

Blood was pounding in Sam's ears, his head spinning, limbs tingling.

_I can't back down now. I'm so sorry, Dean. _

He stepped forward, the bitter scent growing stronger. He could feel a nervous, hysterical glee building inside him. Bubbling up from his gut.

_Breathe. You're stronger than this. _

Sam opened his mouth hesitantly. Azazel winked. He grasped the demon's arm firmly and bent his head, trying to smear most of the blood around, or coat his lips rather than his tongue.

Still, he could taste it. Red, juicy, raw power. Sharp with a sulfurous tang and smoky notes intertwined.

Bliss.


	9. Wings of Dust

**A/N**: I meant to finish this last week, before I left on my mini-vacation. Whoops. I hope this chapter is worth the wait!

I crave feedback, will give virtual cookies to reviewers. And maybe my soul.

* * *

Dean brought the Impala to a halt in font of Bobby's with the screeching of tires and the acrid smell of burning rubber. He fumbled with the door handle, spilling ungracefully out into the salvage yard, stumbling up the steps.

His shaking hands nearly tore the door off its hinges.

"Cas?" He bellowed.

The prone form on the couch flinched and Bobby shot him a nervous, startled glance. Like he was sitting in a room with two nuclear warheads.

"Castiel?" Dean mumbled, lowering his decibel level. He took a few careful, shuffling steps forward. "Who'm I talking to, in there?" He tried to play it off as a joke but the laughter stuck in his throat and clung uncomfortably to his larynx.

"I-I don't really know anymore." The figure struggled into a sitting position, craning his neck to look at Dean.

Shit. Yellowing skin, hollow eye sockets ringed with deep shadows. Creases pulling at the corners of his mouth and spidering across his forehead.

"What happened to you? The angel has left the building?"

Cas knitted his eyebrows together in a brief look of confusion before running his hands through his hair. "Something like that. I guess."

Dean tried not to breathe a sigh of relief_. At least I'm dealing with Cas the person, not Castiel the giant overpowered douchebag. If this is some sort of human problem, we can fix him_. A dark thought crossed Dean's mind. _What if he's lost his grace again and all he needs is his mojo back? Is he only here because he needs help leaving? _

"Well that happened before didn't it? I mean, that's how we met. But uhh you were fine back then, right? Other than the hearing voices and memory problems." He kept his voice light, "So why-"

"I don't know!" Cas snapped, rubbing rough circles in his temples. "Please, Dean. I'm… very tired. Perhaps later I can answer your questions and we can 'get to the bottom of this', as you would say."

Dean glanced at Bobby who shrugged, throwing his hands heavenwards to indicate that he was far out of his league.

"Yeah, course. This is Bobby, by the way. Don't know if you've have the chance to make formal acquaintances yet, but uhh… we'll be in the kitchen right over there if, y'know, you need anything. Hang in there." He reached out to pat Cas on the shoulder, but stopped himself, curling his hand awkwardly into a fist before making his exit.

Dean was inadvertently reminded of the mental hospital. Cas in restraints, drugged out, with fresh bandages from trying to punch through a window. Trying to comfort him but so unsure of his movements, suddenly aware of every muscle twitching in his fingers, the size and clumsiness of his hands.

Dean felt his stomach begin to roil from all the emotions knotting together inside his head. _He's back._ _And human again, for now._ He schooled himself, burying his confusion and wild, irrational hope under more practical duties. _But he could swan off at any minute. So we can't get too close again. Learned that the hard way. Just gotta focus on helping Sam. Then he can go do whatever the hell he wants._

But he felt a cold space around his palm, a missing touch.

* * *

He'd meant to tell Dean everything.

How he'd laid siege to Hell with all his holy wrath the moment he'd felt the Righteous Man slip into perdition.

How he'd grasped Dean's shoulder, a bitter lump of charred flesh, his grace searing away the corruption with such force that he'd left a pink, puckered scar.

How he'd managed to carry him and the young woman with the last of his remaining strength before he was summoned back to Heaven.

But the words flew from his mind the minute Dean had walked through the door.

Because the shame was too much. He'd been cast out, expelled. Struck down to earth to live the rest of his life a helpless, hapless, hopeless human.

He'd been tainted. Soiled in the inferno. His name a curse in Heaven.

_You've disgraced us all, Castiel. Now go. _

And Dean had looked at him, eyes alight with hurt and faith. The young boy whom he'd met years ago still lurking in Cas' memory. The one who he'd loved and betrayed.

How could he convey the grief he'd felt in the split second when the vial broke and he knew nothing could ever be the same? Before he'd been overcome; stifled by duty. Forced to take up the mantle of Heaven, reduced to cold reasoning.

In an instant he'd forgotten what it was like to touch and be touched, to pine, to sorrow, to hope. His superiors had called him away and he'd answered, leaving Dean (he was only a boy) standing bewildered and alone.

_How could he ever forgive me? _

Now his head ached along with his heart, still adjusting to the input of light and sound. As an angel, his senses (what he _could_ feel) had been processed separately, to be analyzed and connected together to form a logical assessment of the situation.

His eyes would pick up a subtle shadow on the floor. He would hear the rustle of clothing, the intake of breath, while his nose caught a fleeting, sour scent of fear mingled with sweat. Conclusion: Someone was behind him, probably preparing to attack.

In this body, _his body_, every sense hit him at once; a whirlwind of color and cacophonous noise. Not to mention emotions the flitted on the edge of his consciousness, begging his attention. _Distractions. _

And yet… It was strangely quiet in his own head without the constant chatter of his brothers and sisters, or the pleas of the faithful to keep him company.

_I need sleep_. _Reprieve from all… This. No wonder humans do so much of it. _Cas' stomach rumbled, his gut shifting and rolling uncomfortably. _And probably food. _

He lay back down on the couch, trying to shut out the voices filtering in from the kitchen and the confusion within his own frenzied brain. It was overwhelming, really. Attempting to react to Dean, pick out the correct course of action from the tangle of emotions inside of him all the while sorting through the bombardment of new sensations.

_Is it human to feel so uncertain?_

* * *

Sam took a shaky breath as he felt the last of the demon blood fading from his veins. He'd never felt so strong before. _So whole. _

The power had been all-encompassing; rampaging through his muscles and setting off fireworks in his skull. The Universe had been his.

It was a terrifying ecstasy.

Sam clenched a hand around one of the bars to his cell, marveling at the four clear indentations in the metal he'd made earlier. _Did I really do that? Maybe I could use this stuff to break out of here, get topside. _

The idea was tantalizing. Sam could already feel his body growing restless with its own weakness. _Just a little bit more. Then it'll be over. _

But Sam knew Dean would be suspicious, and rightly so. It wouldn't help his case if he arrived on Bobby's doorstep with his teeth dripping blood, metaphorically or not.

_I have to get stronger, but not like this._

A cheerful whistling echoed down the corridor, and soon after, Azazel's face appeared in the doorway.

"How are we today Sammy?" He waved a vial filled with a deep ruby-colored liquid. "I brought ya breakfast."

Sam felt his stomach sink, even as his tongue quivered in anticipation. The demons were building him up, preparing him like a pig for slaughter. A sacrifice for the Grand Poobah of hell himself.

_I have to keep up the charade. _

Sam wordlessly took the container, rolling it gingerly between his fingertips. Big, fat droplets clung enticingly to the sides. He swallowed heavily.

"Mind if I hold onto this? I'm not hungry just yet."

Azazel scrutinized him for a moment, the skin around his eyes crinkling jauntily as he squinted. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to pull a fast one on me, Winchester."

"No sir, I'd never-"

"Oh cut the crap, Sam. I can see your hands shaking." The demon flapped his hand impatiently, cutting of Sam's indignant response. "It doesn't matter, really. We've got a busy day ahead of us and believe me, you'll be gulping the stuff down by the end, whether you want to or not."

Sam snorted, tightening his fist around the glass. His resolve was only strengthened by Azazel's assumptions. It had worked the same way with John. _We'll see about that. _


	10. The Heart of the Matter

**A/N: **Vacation plus writer's block= super late update, sorry!

Little bit of torturing towards the end. Nothing super graphic but if you're squeamish, you've been warned.

* * *

Research was a hell of a lot easier behind the veil. As a member of the spectral plane, John didn't have to bother with avoiding alarms, interrogating witnesses or well, ghosts interfering.

Sure, there were drawbacks- his spirit was still tied to Hell's Gate, though he supposed he'd poured enough of himself into his journal and the Impala that he could latch on to those as well. _Hope Dean doesn't figure that out. Could interfere with the plan. _

He still had to watch his back, make sure other hunters didn't cotton on to the fact that he was still lurking around. Demons, either.

That aside, life as a wavelength of electromagnetic energy wasn't so bad. Didn't have to sleep or eat. Forget digging through dusty pages in a library basement-he could tune into Spirit World Chatter better than any psychic.

And boy, were those ghosts talking.

The electric hum of their voices suddenly filled his head as he let down the barriers that prevented the spirits from constantly flooding his consciousness.

_Demon King… Apocalypse… _

…_rise again. Get to feel earth under my feet. See my darling Lucy again. Hold her in my arms. _

_An angel, falling out of heaven, imagine!_

_What's this going to mean for us? I can't leave, not yet. _

_Hunters crawling all over the place. Can't do a damn-_

_Demons and angels, oh gracious me. It's an exciting time to be dead, it is. _

John rolled his eyes at the last utterance, conjured up by one Mabel Bernhardt, who at her own insistence was "eighty- one years old but only twenty-six years dead". She'd been the only one to notice the hunter as he'd crept away from Hell's Gate that night, amid the chaos of the demons. _Friendly old bat. Had to give her the slip though…_

John pushed deeper, pulling in energy from farther corners of the veil, casting his net wider. Here the voices were too indistinct to make out, but he could _feel_ their energies vibrating along an invisible string.

Darkness, fear, confusion. _Demon talk. Someone's made it topside. _John felt himself tense. Or rather, the memory of his corporeal body tense. It was harder than expected, shaking off the remnants of human sensation.

_Could be Azazel. _The thought of finally getting his hands on the slimy bastard made him vibrate with whatever mojo made spirits tick. _He's the reason I'm still here. Can't move on until I make him pay. _

But first, he needed information. The demons had been too quiet, sequestered in Hell where John couldn't reach them. He knew what they had planned for Sam though; deep down inside he'd always known.

He focused in, following the traces of energy like an invisible trail of breadcrumbs. If he was lucky he might get a glimpse- Sickly yellow pupils flashed for a moment before John was yanked back as if a rubber band had been stretched tight and suddenly released. _Spent my payload for the day,_ he thought grimly as he felt his tenuousness grip on reality waver.

_Not yet. Can't go vengeful until everything's in place. Gotta warn Dean…_ A nearby window shattered without warning. With a deep breath, John willed himself out of existence; into that cold grey twilight land of the restless and lost.

* * *

Dean paced around the small kitchen. Opening cupboards, closing them, shifting chairs. He twisted to cap off a beer bottle and promptly left it on the table, forgotten.

His heart had taken up residence somewhere in his esophagus, bulging uncomfortably whenever he tried to swallow.

_Cas._

He could taste the name at the back of his throat; a bitter kiss.

"Son, what in the hell is wrong with you?" Bobby asked, regarding him carefully. He'd always had a soft spot for Dean in particular, and had figured out long ago that the boy did not respond well to being pushed or coddled. He needed a rational reason to express his emotions; otherwise he'd just keep burying them six feet under, though they'd eventually claw their way to the surface and bite him in the ass.

Dean threw his hands up in the air as if to say, _where do I start?_

"Alright, calm down. Let's take this one step at a time."

Dean blew a heavy breath out through his nose, moving to shut the door leading into the living room, which effectively barred Cas from overhearing the conversation.

"I know you two have a history-"

"You make us sound like a pair of freaking exes!" Dean burst out. "I-it's not like that" _he can't know, can't ever know. That part of me is dead and buried._

"You trusted him and he betrayed ya," Bobby said smoothly, "and now he's back and you feel like you're up shit creek without a paddle because he ain't the guy you used to know."

When Dean huffed loudly through his nose and turned away.

"Well lemme tell you something," he continued, speaking to Dean's back. "You don't have a choice right now. With Sam off God knows where, your screwed-up friend might be the only lead we've got. We can keep a sharp eye on him, but we've gotta give him the benefit of the doubt here."

Bobby read Dean's discomfort in the way his muscles stiffened and how he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

For a long minute he was afraid the elder Winchester wouldn't respond at all, but finally he gave a jerky little nod.

Bobby understood that as his cue to leave, casting a weather eye over the man standing hunched over the sink before he did.

Dean let out a small sigh of relief as the door clicked shut, before suddenly realizing that he was alone with his thoughts. He fought his first instinct, which was to run out the door, hop in the Impala and go until he couldn't see anymore, maybe find a nice cliff to drive over.

He settled for the second impulse, swallowing his beer in heavy gulps.

* * *

Distances in Hell were vague and unspecific. Sam wondered whether this was merely a function of time, which seemed to move in fits and starts, or if the distances themselves actually changed at random.

He walked with Azazel up a winding spiral staircase made of rough stone, circling upwards for hours. They seems to be walking up out of the bowels of the Pit, hewn in by damp, rotting earth on one side, while the other dropped off into sheer blackness.

When they reached the top, dry, desolate earth stretched as far as he could see, broken only by scorch marks that scored long, ugly gashes in the ground.

Sam opened his mouth to ask where they were going, seeing as the place appeared deserted for miles. However, Azazel merely ploughed on; after a hundred feet or so, Sam found himself facing a squat metal bunker that shimmered ominously in the heat.

He didn't think to question this, for the blood had made him bold and incurious.

"Ah, before we go in, you'll need this." Azazel handed Sam a razor, glimmering white under the blazing sun. "Precautionary measure."

It felt so warm and inviting in his palm.

"I don't need it," Sam said quickly, thrusting the tool back into the demon's hands. "I'm all juiced up, right?"

Azazel tilted his head quizzically, smiling slyly. "If you insist, Sammy. Though I think you'll come to find that you were, well, born for this sort of thing. With a little help, anyways." He gave a horrible wink before muttering something in an ancient and perverse language, the words crackling off his tongue. A large square of metal shivered and dissolved. Azazel bowed his head, holding out an arm in a mockingly gallant manner. "After you."

Sam found himself inside a small, circular space, much like Bobby's Panic Room back upstairs, minus the iron and Devil's Traps of course. Instead the walls were coated in a mixture of rust and blood. A huge wooden table dominated the center of the room. A blood-soaked figure of indeterminate gender lay draped across it, the only sign of life a faint and rapid heaving of the chest.

"Today you'll be observing." Azazel gave Sam a slight push towards the gristly display. "Take notes, college-boy, there's gonna be a test."

Sam felt his stomach twist, and he knew with a sickening certainty that his pulse was quickening with excitement, not fear. _Some part of me wants this, to feel my hands slick with blood, organs wet and glistening…_

He closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. _I have to fake it, that's all. I can pretend I'm enjoying it, just have to remember who I am. _

Sam forced his lips into a grin as Alistair emerged through the front, a pristine white smock tied daintily around his neck.

"First things first: Professionalism," his cold voice drawled. "Some demons think they can just reach in and yank a heart out any old way but…" he shook his head despairingly, "that's simply barbaric. You need to have style." Alistair reached into the empty air and drew out a gleaming scalpel. Then, in one swift motion, he raked it across the torso of the thing on the table. It let out a low, tremulous moan as the new gash, stretching from one collarbone to the opposite hip began to leak red.

"Start slow," Alistair purred. "Some little, tiny, preliminary cuts," he punctuated his words with careful flicks of the scalpel, raising wells of blood along the victim's leg, "and thennnn you go in." He spread the lips of the chest wound slowly with his finger, worming his way inside.

The thing on the table screamed, banging its head back, eyes rolling.

_It's dead already, think of it like that. Can't save 'em. Think about the fish you caught with Dean in Mississippi. Damn big trout. Flopped around for almost five minute before Dean skewered it. Dad was so proud. _

"It's a shame Dean's not here," Alistair muttered . "He's going to be the true prodigy. My _piece de resistance _if you will. Now you have potential and all but I'm afraid you'll just never measure up. Ironic isn't it? On Earth as it is in heaven. Or, Hell in this case."

"Shut up!" Sam felt the blood bubbling to the surface, the metallic tang lurking at the back of his throat. _Dean would never do something like this. I'm the tainted one, the one who needs saving. _

The demon shrugged, "Whatever you say now doesn't matter. It'll all come to pass whether we like it or not. The Apocalypse is nigh. We just need one more straw before the camel comes crashing down. I believe Dean is coming for you, Sam." Alistair looked right at him, his sunken eyes shrewd and calculating. "And when he does, we'll have you both right where we want you."


	11. Lost

It was never truly quiet at Bobby's. Phones rang at all hours with desperate hunters whose muffled curses could be heard at the other end of the line. Occasionally, precariously stacked books would succumb to gravity, or strangely marked boxes would rustle and thump. Even the house itself creaked and groaned like its cantankerous owner.

Dean rubbed his eyes, fighting back exhaustion as Cas' snores added to the nighttime symphony. Hopelessness clawed at his insides as yet another ancient tome was tossed into the reject pile. He massaged his stomach absentmindedly where the hellhound scars should have been.

_Snapping slavering jaws, ripping tearing-_

Something knocked against the window. Dean jolted, his veins filled with ice water, heart pounding. With aching slowness, he reached under the desk to retrieve a shotgun with trembling fingers.

The knock came again, louder, echoing through the house like a shot.

_They're getting closer runhide get away. Need a spell, salt , anything. _

Dean forced himself to stand, edging along the wall until he was crouched under the windowsill. Cas slept on, oblivious. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to turn back, to _stop touching the curtain you won't like what you'll see. Gleaming red eyes and teeth, such great big teeth. Black nose pressed to the pane, breath coming in puffs of smoke. You got out and now they've come to take you back. _

Breath hitching in his chest, Dean lifted the gingham square, bracing himself for the shattering of glass.

It was a tree.

One stupid fucking overgrown branch had Dean Winchester pissing his pants like a little girl. His knees went weak with relief. He tried to force a chuckle out of his dry throat.

"You remember."

Dean whirled around, his shoulders banging roughly against the sill.

Cas' eyes widened when he saw the gun pointed at his chest.

"Your brief time in Hell. You remember it," he said again, this time a bit more hesitantly.

Dean responded with a blank look, but he lowered the weapon.

"I remember too," Cas murmured quietly, his eyes downcast. "That's why I couldn't sleep. Humans talk of dreams but I never…" His hands fluttered in the air like birds, and Dean knew he was trying to put into words the dread that stalked him at night. The piercing loneliness that struck when the sun went down and all was quiet and you were left staring into the void of all your past mistakes. They paraded behind closed eyes wearing pointy teeth and blood-soaked claws.

"Hey man, it's alright," he forced out, still trying to calm his racing pulse, cursing the bastard for sneaking up on him, for needing him so badly when right now all he wanted was to see Sam again. _My brother needs me more. He's stuck taking my punishment while I'm up here with you. _

He took a deep breath. "What the hell happened to you anyway?"

Cas shrugged, examining his fingernails with the concentration of someone who was avoiding the subject. "I fell."

"Yeah, I got that part." Dean struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He wanted to grab Cas around the shoulders and shake the information out of him.

The ex-angel looked hurt. "I was trying to save you," he whispered. "Those were my orders. I-I followed them to the letter. I laid siege on Hell, fought legions of demons until I found you. But even though we won, I was cast out. Heaven was… unsatisfied with my work."

Dean felt an odd twinge deep in his belly. Not because that definitely sounded fishy, but because it sounded familiar. A cold, unforgiving authority figure who was never quite pleased? Yeah, he could definitely relate.

And Cas looked so forlorn standing there, his hair and clothes rumpled from sleep. He seemed to have shrunk a few sizes during their conversation, as if trying to fold in on himself. Dean couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"C'mon, sit down." Dean guided him back over to the couch, casting one last threatening glare at the window. "Just start from the beginning. Maybe we can put two and two together and figure out how to save Sam."

Cas plucked at a stray thread dangling from one of the cushions. His long, pale fingers worked deftly, pulling and knotting nervously.

"Well?" Dean was beginning to lose patience again.

"You don't understand," Cas mumbled tiredly. The bags under his eyes seemed to darken as he spoke. "Even if we knew where he was, we can't save your brother."

* * *

Every day Sam woke in his cell. The door was left unlocked now; he could come and go as he pleased, but somehow Sam sensed that the routine was keeping him sane. That maybe if he left and started to wander the depths of Hell, he would become truly lost, both body and soul.

The demon blood sustained him. As much as he mentally flinched and twisted away, Sam could no longer deny the need for that barrier. Liquid strength and calm; a smoky haze from which he could safely watch the mutilations without cracking.

Azazel seemed pleased with his progress. The razor now felt like an extension of his arm.

_Just turnitoffturnitoff none of this is real. _

The thing on the table screamed. They always did, in the end.

Today it wore Dean's face.

_It's a mask, peel it off. He's not this mess of blood and bone. Can't plead with his eyes if I take 'em out. Alistair would like that. See no evil, right? He loves irony. _

Yesterday had been Bobby. Sometimes it was his father, shouting at him even as he sliced. And occasionally, if they really wanted to test him, Jess.

_It's all a game. Watching and waiting, convincing. They think I'll forget, that they can trick me, prepare me to go topside. But I know what's real, oh yes, none of this that's for sure._

He breathed deeply, inhaling the thick, wet scent of shit and gore. Letting it wrap around him until he couldn't sense it anymore.

"I always knew you'd be quick on the uptake, Sammy," Azazel whispered in his ear. "You're on the fast-track now." He proffered his arm once more and Sam bent down, his mouth already watering.

_Dean is coming. Any day. He won't leave me here. _

_He won't. _

Small tendrils of panic began to trickle down his spine before the adrenaline surge chased those thoughts away and Sam was lost in a red haze.


	12. Breaking Point

**A/N: **Moving back on campus, school starting, yadda yadda. Thanks to the mysterious Guest Reviewer- I couldn't respond to you individually!

For those of you who've been holding out for some actual Destiel... Let's just say I hope this doesn't disappoint ;D

* * *

"What do you mean 'we can't save Sam'?" Dean hissed, his frustration boiling over.

Cas shrugged wearily, as if a giant weight was pressing down on him. "What do you want me to say, Dean? Your brother is in Hell, probably under strict guard. It took every ounce of power I had to rescue you. And that was when I had the Heavenly host at my side. Now I'm…" He paused, blowing out a long breath that ended in an odd, cynical little chuckle that was chillingly uncharacteristic, "Impotent, I suppose. 'Can't get it up' as you would say."

"So what, you wanna sit around with your thumb up your ass?" Dean was livid now. _All those prayers, that energy, the hope, wasted. I cared about you, you lousy sonofabitch. _His heart was racing, heat rising in his face. Strangled, bellowing breaths blew in and out from his lips.

Cas shrugged again, this time only managing a faint twitch of his shoulders. His eyes were far away. "All I know is that something is _wrong _up there."

"Yeah, well I can see something wrong right in front of me," Dean spat.

"I never said I didn't agree. I am an abomination, after all. I'm just not sure how to get it through your thick skull; _Heaven doesn't want me anymore._"

Dean's fingers twitched into a spastic fist. He needed to squeeze, him, slap him, _make him care. _The former angel was slumped limply on the worn couch, curling in on himself as if he was in pain.

"THIS IS SAM WE'RE TALKING ABOUT HERE. NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO MOPE AROUND FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF!" Dean roared. Cas at least had the decency to flinch, averting his eyes from the hunter's thunderous visage.

Anger formed had formed a tight fist in Dean's gut, its heavy pressure pushing uncomfortably against his insides. He swallowed convulsively, mad impulses dashing across his body.

_A punch connecting solidly with Cas' cheekbone, knuckles stinging._

_The coffee table unpending, sending books scattering like leaves._

_A primal howl tearing from his throat. _

Cas was looking at him with the same blank stare he'd worn when they'd first met. As if he were trying to deconstruct Dean, pick apart his words and tics and come to a logical conclusion about the human race.

"You have my sympathies," he said evenly, without breaking eye contact.

Dean saw white for a moment, awed at the utter inadequacy of the response. Blinded by Cas' ignorance.

He leaned in closer, breathing in the stench of stale sweat and sickness.

_Look me in the eye, I dare you._

Cas tilted his chin up expectantly, an attempt to gauge the effectiveness of his words.

Dean kissed him. Not with grace or finesse but with a powerful mashing of lips and teeth, like he was trying to convey all his black frustration and stubborn hope in one action. He needed Cas to _feel_ again. So he dug his fingers into the nape of the other man's neck, gripping the short, coarse hairs. He needed Cas to hurt. To want.

He needed Cas.

* * *

Dean was beginning to try his patience. The hunter refused to see what was right in front of him, what logic _clearly _indicated was beyond the limits of possibility. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cas sensed that this was a coping mechanism of sorts. _Denial. _That Dean was hurt and confused, grasping on to any solution available.

_He's not trying to hurt you. _

But frankly, Cas was too tired to care. The low-watt lamp Dean had been reading by buzzed like a mosquito at the back of his skull.

_I'm not made for this. I'm a soldier, not a therapist. _

_Was a soldier_, he corrected, again feeling the itchy discomfort of shame and frustration burrowing into his chest.

That was another thing that surprised him about being human. How emotions somehow wormed their way into physical sensation, demanding attention, reminding him they were real.

Cas stared at Dean, who stood over him with his fingers digging into his thighs and wondered what Sam's absence felt like. Was it a constant, gnawing pain like hunger? A sharp stab? Pins and needles? The feverish light in the hunter's eyes spoke of burning, from the inside out. It would consume him entirely, leaving nothing but ash.

"You have my sympathies." The words slid out before Cas could mull them over, another instance in which his new body acted independently of his mind.

The other man froze, letting out an involuntary growl. The anger in his face was total and absolute.

_Who is at fault here? I'm tired and broken and I can't bear to see you constantly putting your faith in me. _It seemed to Cas that they simply took turns betraying and misunderstanding one another.

Dean's face loomed closer, swelling in his field of vision like a freckled balloon.

_You can't fathom how sorry I am._

And then he was pressed into the fabric, spine digging into the springs. The sensation reminded him of when his wings were new and unblemished, fragile bones poking through the skin.

How different he was then; eager and obedient. A proud, perfect weapon of God. Now his body was reacting on its own accord. Heart jumping wildly inside his chest, lungs devoid of oxygen. Susceptible to the myriad fallibilities of every other human on the planet. Stroke, coronary, sex. They were all the same really.

Or so he had thought.

Cas found himself pressing into Dean's touch, rather than away. Submitting to the embrace with clumsy, unpracticed movements. His body, kept so cold and rigid the past ten years, was hungry for touch.

Dean let out a small noise; half gasp, half snarl. His teeth clacked together, pinching Cas' lower lip between them. The skin broke, causing drops of blood to smear across their chins.

Suddenly, Cas was drowning. The salty taste flooded his mouth along with the slightly alcoholic tang of Dean's saliva, the heady scent of oil and exhaust, underlain with dirt, the bulk of the hunter leaning into him, the friction of the couch, his clothing- Dean enfolded him, invading a bruised and battered brain. Cas thought his nerves might explode trying to keep up with each new sensation, re-learning how to synapse.

_An unholy baptism. Reborn in lust. _

And suddenly the weight was gone. Dean had stood, swiping at the blood half-heartedly, like a man waking from a dream. His eyes were hooded, unreadable. He pivoted abruptly and marched out the door. A minute later the Impala roared to life.

Cas stared after him, a small smear crusting on his chin.

_Look at how far you've fallen. _


	13. Shame

**A/N:** ONE MORE MONTH GUYS. Season nine is gonna be fine.

Thanks to Mikey for filling in as beta and for all of you who've stuck with me up to this point. This should be the last bit of "set-up". More action next chapter, I promise!

* * *

The stars gazed down coldly on the sleek black car as it tore down the vacant country road, its engine growling low.

Dean let the night air slip past him in a cooling stream, calming the heat that had been coursing through his veins.

A decade's worth of buried emotion was beginning to bleed through the gaping holes that had been blown open in the encounter. He'd never allowed himself to fully grieve losing Cas- He made the deal and moved on, let the hunt consume him again. Went back to being a good little soldier.

John would smile and roll his eyes in mock exasperation with every waitress Dean winked at and after each phone number he'd collect from some sultry-eyed broad in a bar.

_I just want you to be happy, alright? _His thirteen year old brother's voice echoed through the years, recalling him back to when he was seventeen and scared, unwilling to admit that the boy with the blue eyes had stolen his heart.

They were men now, strangers. A gulf had been rent open between them, with Heaven on one side and Earth on the other. The chasm that spanned time and space, separating the human and the divine since the beginning of creation was gone; vanished in a single touch. One that was seared into his flesh. A mark of their collective shame.

Hell still burnt hot and sour at the back of his throat, confined to nightmares and the space in the corner of his eye, just out of sight. He could feel it _lurking _there. A shadow, the flash of a razor. As long as he didn't focus, didn't think, didn't examine the creeping dread, he was safe. There was a feeling deep inside his gut that writhed and twisted away from those memories. They would swallow him whole.

_God, Sammy. Where the hell are you? I'm tail spinning, man. Need someone to get my head out of my ass again. _

He hated himself for thinking about Sam in the past tense. Dean knew that was a slippery slope towards acceptance, and he wasn't about to give up just yet. _If I escaped, we can spring you too. Just hang in there. _

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for just a second. In the darkness behind his lids, the rumble of the Impala's engine intensified, the soft rocking motion of the car as it began to drift slightly. If he kept his eyes closed the trajectory would continue until his baby found a nice ditch to lie in or a tree to embrace.

The engine whined as if in protest, and chill rippled down Dean's spine. He pried his eyes open, biting back a yelp when he noticed John Winchester's ghostly form in the rearview mirror. He had a hand draped casually over the backseat. His posture was relaxed but the expression on his face was turbulent and unreadable.

_How much did he see? _

Dean's insides froze into a cold, hard lump. He was weak, pathetic. About to pussy out right when the action was at its peak. _Mooning over another guy. _

He swallowed down the bile that was quickly rising in his throat, grunting out an acknowledgment of his father's presence.

John tilted his chin up. "Looks like you've got the devil on your tail boy. What in hell are you running from?" His tone was mild but there was an undercurrent of menace in it.

_Ohshitohshit he knows. _

Dean tried his best to shrug, but his shoulders were wound up so tight that it looked more like a muscle spasm. "Just… a lot going on right now. Thought I'd clear my head."

"I bet."

_What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Dean clenched the steering wheel even tighter, his knuckles popping in protest.

John continued, "Azazel's plotting something big. Word in the spirit world is that he's been coming topside."

"What could he possibly want up here?" Dean spat. He already has-" he couldn't make himself say _Sam._

"Doesn't matter. We can trap him and kill him. Make him pay for what he did to our family. That's still the objective, you understand?" The radio flicked on in response to the uptick in energy. A talk show host droned on about the economy. John's voice was low and deadly. "You're brother's changing Dean, even as we speak."

_Changing how?_ The question hovered on his lips, but the answer could condemn him. John clenching his fist, adding his little brother to the list of reasons Azazel had to be destroyed, deeming him another lost cause in a long line of Winchester failures.

_He called him dangerous. _

His own father, losing faith.

_It was my job to protect him in the first place and I couldn't even do that. _

"We'll figure something out," Dean blustered. "You never gave Sam enough credit; that's one of the reasons he ran off to Stanford in the first place. Whatever they're doing to him down there, he can handle it." _But for how long?_ "As for Azazel- what exactly are we supposed to do that? He's managed to avoid us for over twenty years. The Hell makes you think he'll just show up on our doorstep? Maybe if we spend our time trying to rescue Sam-"

"I know about the angel."

Dean slammed on the breaks, the squealing tires echoing the wheels turning in his head. The air was forced out of his lungs and they couldn't quite re-inflate.

_It's not what you think it is. _

_What angel?_

_I didn't think you'd find out._

_I'm sorry I'm not the son you want me to be. _

John was gone from the backseat. Apparently the sudden shift in momentum had interrupted the focus he needed to maintain contact with the living world.

Dean took a moment to wipe the cold sweat from his face and regain control over his limbs. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely extract the emergency flask from the glove compartment. He swore as the amber liquid slopped down his front.

"…The demons would love that… bait-" John's voice was muzzy and distorted by the veil once again. Dean realized how much stronger his father's spirit must have gotten since their last encounter.

"Are you listening to me? Gotta go… Stop it! The heavenly host… powers. We can use -" His words dissolved into clicks and hisses.

And with that, Dean was alone.

* * *

Perhaps it wasn't fair, leaving him in the dark like that, but John Winchester had always operated on a need to know basis. The demon, for example. He'd figured that out a few months after Mary died, but hunting a nameless, faceless monster helped keep his boys in line. Kept them closer to him until they were ready for the big reveal. Besides, Dean was cracking and the knowledge that his treasured younger brother was destined to be Lucifer Incarnate wouldn't help matters.

Meg had told him about the demon blood, whispered it gleefully into his ear when she'd captured him in Lincoln.

And again, during his century in hell, Alistair would wax poetic about the preparations being made for the new King.

Sam, the wayward son. Always willful and curious, stubborn as he was but perhaps without the hard-ass exterior. Sam was the brittle child, lacking Dean's easygoing charm, taking everything so seriously.

Once upon a time, John would have raged and stormed, moved heaven and earth to save him. Maybe it was his time in hell, maybe ghosts stopped feeling human emotions just like they stopped feeling their bodies, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Azazel was all that mattered, the only thing that caused anger to bloom in his gut like and unholy flower.

Guarding Sam was Dean's duty. Always had been.


End file.
